Paris

Yessica and I commenced our romantic weekend to France watching some X-rated, not-so-discreet, canoodling through the narrow crack that (supposedly) separates airline chairs during our flight to Paris. With Ryanair's congested and narrow seating map, we couldn't have been any closer than if we were actually tongue-tied with these fools.

Let me provide a contextual background: as a whole, Europe has no qualms about PDA. In fact, groping is communally habitual next to waking up, brushing your teeth, and going to work. But this couple transcended the line of affectionate over-the-
sweater action. These sexually ravenous beasts were going at it like two greased-up baboons battling for air. Oh, and this was no sprint. It's a full-out freaking marathon. You know the flight duration from Madrid to Paris? THREE HOURS. I won't even consider locking lips with a guy for at least three weeks after witnessing that abomination. I should have stuck my face right up to the crack to see how they liked it... "No no, it's cool. Please continue."

Okay, this was taken in Times Square, but you get the picture.

After landing in the tiniest airport on earth, Yessica and I take an hour-long bus ride into the sparkling city of Paris. Ridden with anxious anticipation, we explode from our seats as the bus pulls into its terminal. We gather our bulky belongings and descend the stairs into the warm Paris night air. The city hums with romantic charisma as amorous couples drown the streets, flocking restaurants and bars. Of all the places I've visited thus far, Paris is by far the most enamoring. From the top of the Eiffel Tower to the wide depths of the Seine River, every crevice of the shimmering city is robust with romance--everywhere you turn, some couple is performing the 1950's emotional embrace dipping kiss that you see on posters. Jerks.

For our romantic weekend getaway, I arranged for Yessica and I to stay with my friend Malcom and his family in the heart of Paris. I met Malcolm about three years ago when he came to the States to find work as a sound engineer. His lanky 5'9" stature supports a handsome face with delicate features, thin amber hair, and the hairiest, most barbaric-looking chest I've ever seen. With a true, deeply rooted love for France and a strong abhorrence for America, my friends and I took huge delight in fucking with Malcolm's affiliation for his country:
"Dude, let's sing 'Proud to be an American' to piss off Malcolm!"
"Yeah! Wait... Do you know any other words besides the refrain?"
"Uhh... Who cares, man. Malcom will hate the refrain and it will be AWESOME!"

Another charming attribute I associate with Malcolm, and Malcolm only is this: he is, hands down, the most disgruntled, agitated human being I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Malcolm hates EVERYTHING. You like a song? Malcolm thinks it's the worst song ever made. You like football? Football is the dumbest sport known to man. You like babies? Man, fuck babies. I'm not even fully convinced Malcolm likes me all that much, but I don't care. I love that pestered little French bastard nonetheless.

I greet Malcolm with a slow-motion running embrace. First thing he says to kindle our two-month reunion: "I'll show you around Paris, but I WILL NOT take you to the Eiffel Tower. Fuckin' hate that place. So many tourists. I fuckin' hate tourists." God, how I've miss you, Malcolm.

We take the train back to Malcolm's apartment--the coolest, most French-looking urban living space I've ever stepped foot in. Located just west of Paris in one of the city's most affluent residential areas, the antique-looking residence is adjoined to the oldest school in Paris.

We entered an open living space lined with inundated book shelves that scaled the rustic brick walls. The old wooden floors creaked as we cased the narrow halls leading to the bedrooms and one large room with a piano and an enormous standing base (his dad is a musician and teacher). The cozy kitchen, clearly made for a chef, has elaborate cooking utensils arranged strategically on the wooden cutting table, long webs of garlic and red Chilean peppers strung from the ceiling against the wall, and fresh herbs growing in a small boxed-in garden next to the window. The overall ambiance of Malcolm's apartment is so comfortable you practically sink into its surroundings.This is my sanctuary.

Lethargic from our extensive day of travel, Yessica, Malcolm, and I prepare a feast of pasta oilio, thinly sliced cured ham, a rich bottle of French red wine, and bread and butter. Side note: France has THE greatest butter in the universe. If you're ever traveling in Paris, stock up. I don't know what it is about the taste, but I could eat it like a Snickers bar.

As the three of us guzzle decadent wine and wreak culinary havoc around the stove and cutting table, we're greeted by Nicole and Peter, Malcolm's parents--the coolest set of parents ever. Seriously though, if more couples mirrored these two, we'd have a lot less intolerable children in this world. You know, the kids who make you seriously reconsider ever bearing offspring. Why Malcolm appears so vexed all the time is beyond me.

Peter, a traveling bassist and steady music teacher, was--get this--born in New Jersey and Nicole, who is ranked highly among the school administration board (thus the impetus behind their bomb-ass apartment) moved to France after being born in Venezuela to an Italian father and French mother. Therefore, according to my calculations, this makes Malcolm 1/4 organic, full-blooded French. Fuck you, Malcolm, you stupid French wannabe. The two met on a cruise ship--Peter playing music and Nicole working as a waitress simply to travel. It was Elizabeth who kept Peter on board the ship for an additional year.

Now, I'm no hopeless romantic by any means. In fact, I pity those who are. "Oh my GAWD, I like totally sobbed during the 'Notebook'. She still comes back to him even though, like, they're still old and stuff. True love really does exist!" Correction: Nicholas Sparks is just really good at his job. There's a one-in-a-million chance your fate will resemble the fabricated epic love story of Noah and Allie's. Grow up.

However, I, the pessimist, was struck by Nicole and Peter's romance. The two met and fell deeply in love on a ship that both of them boarded by chance. They pursued a long-distance relationship--Nicole in France, Peter in the States--for an additional two years until Peter threw in the towel and moved to Paris. The two didn't marry until after having their two children, Malcolm and Lucinda, and have cultivated a home dripping with love and strong family bonds. Que mono. How cute.

We swapped stories until midnight when Yessica and I, satiated and content, fell fast asleep, using each passing minute as energizing agents to fuel the rest of our extravagantly glutenous weekend.